


duty-bound

by moonstruckfool



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Beach Scene, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Wedding Night, mentioned Sao Feng, one day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstruckfool/pseuds/moonstruckfool
Summary: He grabs her shoulders. "Yes, Elizabeth, it matters, because it is my duty as your husband to keep you safe!""And it isn't mine to keep you safe?"He shakes his head. "That's beside the point."
Relationships: Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	duty-bound

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic for Pirates! I hope you enjoy it, and would be immensely grateful if you left comments to tell me if you do!
> 
> As always, my thanks to Marie for looking this over <3
> 
> Reuploaded with some edits on 11 September 2020.

She will not tell him what happened on Sao Feng's ship. There is no purpose for her to do so. He's already been furious at her for offering her freedom in exchange for his (and everyone else's); bringing that up again will only remind them of the unhappiness of the months before. They are newly wed, drunk on love and each other, and Sao Feng is dead, his memory to be buried and forgotten.

Except that's easier said than done.

She's pushed him from her mind since the battle started, through the maelstrom, through Will's death and resurrection. She did not think of him - or anything else, really, as she thrust her sword into the sand next to Will's and stumbled ashore, giddy with excitement. Or as she launched herself at her husband, not caring if they were within sight of the pirate fleet, determined to learn by heart the contours of his lips, to savour every second of the hours they had until sunset. Or as they staggered further inland and dropped down on the sand and made ardent love, both painfully aware that their first 'night' together would also be their last for a long time.

But now, lying naked with Will in the sand, watching the rise and fall of his chest and his dark hair waving in the wind as he sleeps, when she should be thanking Calypso that he’s alive (or if not that, at least not dead), or burying her head in his chest and breathing in the scent of sweat and sex that lingers on his skin - the Pirate Lord of Singapore slithers into her head, stealthy and sudden. 

Why, of all the things that have happened over the last week, should  _ he _ steal into her mind and take her happiness by the neck and  _ squeeze _ ? Why him, and not the knowledge that Will must leave in a matter of hours and not come back for a long, long time, or that Father is gone forever? Why does she, despite all the things they’ve done today and the fact that he’s asleep, feel the urge to snatch up her robes and cover herself and back away from Will? 

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she turns away from her husband, wrapping her arms around herself, gritting her teeth in frustration. She has survived war, and loss, and betrayal, fought and killed countless men (live and undead), and each time she has emerged battered, bruised, but whole in body and sound in mind. Will she now be shattered, because the filthy brute of a pirate would have stuck his nasty little appendage in her against her will and  _ wiggled _ it? And he hadn’t even succeeded! 

And why only now? Why had she not shied from Will’s touch before? And why should she, now? Will loves her. She loves him. All they’ve done is with her full, enthusiastic consent. She doesn’t know - it makes no sense at all, and she grips herself harder and weeps, her tears dripping into the sand.

She tries to be quiet - and maybe it isn’t because she’s not - but a rough blacksmith’s hand lands gently on her shoulder, and she flinches too hard. 

“Elizabeth?”

He comes around and stoops so that their eyes are level, and she can only just make out the shock on his face through the hazy blur of as-yet unshed tears. 

“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, sobbing harder. He puts out a tentative hand and helps her to sit up. 

“May I?” He gestures to her hair, and she nods. That she can bear. 

He sits behind her and runs his fingers through her hair, combing out the tangles and gently massaging her scalp, murmuring soothingly as she hiccups, and gradually, gradually, she relaxes, resting her head against his shoulder with a sigh. He puts his arms around her and kisses her hair softly. 

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t have to leave you.”

“No, it isn’t… it isn’t that.”

“What?”

She shakes her head wordlessly and tries to keep her face from crumpling again, even though she knows he can't see it.

"Elizabeth, please. Whatever it is. No more secrets between us, all right? Not now. Whatever the burden, it's ours to bear, together."

She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to speak of it, least of all to him. She wants to lock it away, shove it deep within her, and forget it ever happened.

Will turns her around a little too roughly and tilts her head up to face him. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the fear and need and concern and grief all mixed together in his dark eyes, is something she's never seen before. It is almost unearthly, and she is reminded again that the Captain of the  _ Flying Dutchman  _ sits before her; it is not the same Will as before. She is suddenly afraid of him like she's never been before, and she shakes off his hand and edges away from him, panting.

He seems to realise what he's done, and his face falls. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I really am."

She puts her head between her knees and breathes deeply, forcing herself to calm down. He's right, she realises. He has a right to know, and now, for they are one flesh, and anything untold will remain so for God knows how long it'll be before she sees him again.

She didn't hear him get up, but when she looks up, he is putting on his clothes, as if making to leave. 

"Will!" she calls.

He turns to look at her with faint shock and caution, and it breaks her heart. Did he believe himself capable of hurting her? 

"Don't go. Please."

He nods slowly, dropping his sword belt, and sorts somewhat confusedly through her robes and armour, finally picking up the tunic and draping it around her when he lowers himself to the ground next to her.

"It's all right, you don't have to-" he begins, but she won't have it.

"No. Our burden, isn't it?"

He smiles in that way only her Will can smile, and she decides he's perhaps not so changed at all.

It fades off his face as she tells him what happened on the  _ Empress _ , but she doesn't allow herself to look away. He’s vibrating with emotion when she finishes, and presses her to him, taking care to be gentle. She knows he's trying to restrain himself for her sake, and while she wants to protest that she won't break, she's grateful for it.

“I told you not to go with him!” he whispers into her hair.

“I had to. It was that or you all hanged. How could I not? I’d do it again.”

He clutches her harder, and his voice is choked. “Blast the  _ Dutchman _ . I’d have killed the bastard myself.”

"Will, if not for the  _ Dutchman _ , he would've done it!"

"I know." He sighs, pulls away and holds her at arm's length. "Can you prom-"

"No, Will, I can't. I said I'd do it again, and I mean it."

"Why? What for?"

"For you! To protect you!" Doesn't he understand? She'd give her life for his safety.

"Only me?" 

"No, the others-"

"If I hadn't been there, would you have done it?" There’s urgency in his voice and entreaty in his eyes.

"Why are you asking me this?" she cries in frustration. "Does it matter?"

He grabs her shoulders. "Yes, Elizabeth, it matters, because it is my duty as your husband to keep you safe!"

"And it isn't mine to keep  _ you _ safe?"

He shakes his head. "That's beside the point."

"No, it isn't! Will, I care for your safety as much as you care for mine!"

"And I will be safe!" She opens her mouth to interject, but he pushes on. "Listen, Elizabeth. Whatever is done is done, and I apologise for worrying you by putting myself in danger-"

"Worrying me?  _ Worrying me? _ ” With a peculiar sense of detachment, she notes that her voice is rising hysterically. “Will, you died before my eyes!" She knows she will never forget the way his breath stuttered or how she could see the life fading from his eyes, or the feeling that her heart was being torn in two.

His face clouds over. "Yes, but I'm alive now. And what I've been trying to say is that I am alive. And safe. And I will not need saving, as long as my heart is safe. And it will be, so long as you keep it with you and yourself out of danger.”

“Will-”

“Please, Elizabeth.”

She understands what he’s asking of her, all right. What that will entail… abdicating her position in the Brethren Court? She finds she doesn’t want to think about it now. Her fear of his touch has melted away as suddenly as it came. Will would never, will never hurt her. And he wants her to be safe. 

She glances at the horizon briefly. They have perhaps an hour till he must leave.

Instead of answering him, she raises her hand and strokes his face, and then reaches up to free his hair from the scarf that holds it out of his face. She threads her fingers through it, just as he did with hers, and sets her lips on his, sighing as his arms come around her. She is safe here, in his embrace. She intends to stay in it for as long as she can. 

He exhales forcefully and opens his mouth when they part, but she presses her bare chest to his and slides a hand between them with a wicked grin. His breath catches, and he gives her a look -  _ This conversation isn't over _ , then kisses her hungrily. Her tunic drops to the floor.

She's a little sore; it isn't the most comfortable, but it's not worth stopping for - she will have all the time in the world to recover, after. She has him twice more, and he gratifies earnestly, repeating  _ I love you, Elizabeth, I love you _ in that breathless, husky voice between their kisses and she finds herself sobbing again because he's going, he's going, and there's nothing she can do about it, and she can't even remember the last time she told him she loves him - it must have been months ago!

Will notices at once, of course, and stills, opening his mouth.

"No, don't you dare. I'm fine."

He quirks a derisive eyebrow. She rolls her eyes and then her hips against his, and he's persuaded to continue.

She rakes her nails across his back and lets the tears flow, and as her climax comes upon her she cries, "I love you, I love you!  _ I love you _ !"

Sometime later, she finds Will slumped on top of her, weeping into her hair.

"Will-"

"I love you, Elizabeth Turner."

"And I you."

"I don't want to go-"

"You must, Will, or you'll end up like Davy Jones, and I will not have an octopus in my bed!"

He laughs through his tears. "No, that wouldn't be pleasant."

"Not at all."

He sighs wearily, shifting his weight off her and dropping heavily into the sand by her side. He cups her face in his hands and runs his thumb over her forehead, her nose, and mouth, then strokes her neck and collarbone and the curve of her breast, and she knows he's trying to memorise her body. She wonders briefly if in the lonely years that await him on the  _ Dutchman  _ he will take himself in hand and spend himself to memories of today. As for herself, she is carefully shelving away every sensation she has experienced, new or familiar, every sound that escaped their lips in the throes of love, every word that has passed between them. Nothing will reduce the pain of their imminent separation, but she hopes that the remembering of these fleeting moments will help her to bear it better.

"I'll miss you," he whispers. "Very much."

"I'll miss you too."

Eventually, they dust sand off themselves and get dressed, Will tying back his hair and buckling on his sword belt. She puts on the tunic and ties it around her waist haphazardly, deciding not to bother with the elaborate battle regalia that her crew had presented her with. She’s in no way decent, but what does it matter? High society, and with it all its decency and propriety, is now but a distant memory. He puts an arm around her as they walk reluctantly back to the shore, holding his boots with his free hand. 

There are sharp rocks hidden here and there in the sand; she slips and stumbles and her feet sting with small cuts. He sees her wince and sets his boots on the ground, motioning for her to put them on.

“But what about-”

He stands on one leg and turns the sole of his foot upward. She does the same, and they lean on each other for support. Her skin has been torn slightly in several places, red dots showing in the small abrasions. His, in comparison, seem unblemished at first, but upon closer inspection, there  _ are _ cuts. But his skin is as pale as ever, not red, and there doesn’t seem to be any blood. As they watch, the cuts close over and vanish. 

She looks at him in bewilderment. He casts his eyes away, stands on both feet and produces his father's knife. He slashes the palm of his hand, and she stifles a yelp - she’s seen and lived through endless pain and violence, but for him to inflict it upon himself so casually...

There is no red welling in the wound. He offers his hand to her. She bites her lip and dips her fingers in the clear liquid that is flowing in place of blood, then puts them to her mouth.

Salt - seawater.

"Will!" she cries in surprise, an unbidden wave of grief washing over her. She cannot fool herself that he's human still. Her Will, yes, he will always be. But his body no longer obeys the rules of the living. He will never age again, never bleed. She forces the thought that she still ages and will one day live no longer from her mind.

He nods self-consciously and fixes his eyes on his hand. The wound is already closing, leaving no scar.

She has so many questions that they do not have time for. Did he feel the change, when he arose? Is this why he cannot stay on land for more than a day? Was his - oh, God, was his seed also seawater? No, it couldn't have been, it hadn’t the same colour or taste. She forces down the wave of hysteria, and settles for "Does it hurt?" 

"Not really." 

"Oh."

He gestures to his boots, and she steps into them gratefully.

They spend the rest of the short walk to the shore in silence. 

When they reach the water's edge, she pulls off one boot and hands it to him, watching mesmerised as he sits and puts it on. Perhaps it's the being in love with him, or knowing she won't see him again for a long time, but in that moment he's the most beautiful sight she's ever beheld, and she regrets all the time she's wasted wallowing in guilt and loneliness on the journey to World's End, all the time they wasted misunderstanding each other, when she could have gone to him and told the truth, and they would still have grieved, yes, but together. He would not have blamed her; would have understood why she had to do it, she knows now. She wishes she had been sure of it earlier. 

The sound of his soft sigh interrupts her thoughts. 

"I'm going to need the other one." 

He hardly needs excuses to touch her, but she finds him one nonetheless. She plants the booted foot onto a rock next to him, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward. When she makes no move to take it off, he raises his head, and the mild surprise on his face morphs into a smile. She returns it, tucking her hair away from her face so she can see him better. He kneels before her, lifting her leg and sliding the boot off gently, then presses his face to her knee and inhales worshipfully. He did this once earlier, insisting that the scent of her was heavenly. She's not had a proper wash for some time and is sure that this is very evident, but she humours him all the same. Anything that will help him remember her better. His hand slides upward to grasp her thigh, his mouth following it, and she feels herself rouse to his touch just as she did before. Closing her eyes, she breathes out blissfully, revelling in the sensation.

Then he pulls back and whispers, "It's nearly sunset." 

As if she hadn't noticed, some part of her mind scoffs, but she appreciates the verbal acknowledgement of the fact that their time together is coming to an end, whether she likes it or not. She glances out across the water to where the  _ Dutchman _ is anchored, its sails tied, waiting for its captain. Her lip quivers involuntarily, and she looks down at her husband as he pulls on the other boot and gets up. She follows as he heads for the rock where he’d left the chest and his coat earlier.

He picks up the coat, uncovering the old, engraved metalwork. 

“It’s always belonged to you,” he says, picking it up and facing her. “Will you keep it safe?” The corners of his mouth turn briefly upward.

“Yes,” she replies, and she wonders how her answer could have been anything but. She starts forward, taking the chest from him. She can feel the steady rhythm of his heart through the metal and marvels for the hundredth time at the thought that it beats for her and only her, as hers does for him. “Yes,” she says again, firmly.

His mouth tightens and his eyes flick around in the same awed expression he’d made when she'd stripped off her last layer of clothing, and he leans in, resting his forehead gently against hers. She closes her eyes and breathes in the salty smell of him - he  _ is _ the sea now, it seems only right that he smells like it - and concentrates on the warmth of his soft breaths on her face.

All too soon, he is gone. She squeezes her eyes further shut, as if that might bring back the feel of him, then opens her eyes. If she cannot keep him by her side, she  _ will _ watch until he vanishes from sight. A sudden desperation seizes her, and she shakes her head -  _ no no no don’t go don’t leave me _ \- and sets down the chest, trying to hold herself back, trying to let him go.

She fails.

“Will!" she cries, and flies towards him - he turns at the sound of her voice and catches her as she stands on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him fervently, and he reciprocates with equally fierce passion, dipping her slightly. She presses closer to him, overtaken by an urge to push him to the ground under her and take him into herself one last time, but he steadies them and she reminds herself that they don’t have the time. She lets her hands slide onto his shoulders as he ends the kiss.

She opens her eyes and takes him in, for he will not be this close to her for a long, long time. His darkened eyes hold hers for a moment.

“Keep a weather eye on the horizon.”

Then he goes, and she lets him.

She doesn’t take her eyes off him, watching as he rows back to the  _ Dutchman _ , and as he boards and the crew hoists her sails, and as the sea finally swallows the sun, and as the sky flashes green and the ship vanishes.

She gazes at the empty horizon for a long while, and then turns back and picks up the metal box, sitting down on the sand and hugging it to her suddenly hollow chest. For if she holds his heart in her very hands, he has taken hers to World’s End with him.

Will has gone to serve out his duty, as she must serve hers. 

Two months later, she finds that he has given her yet another reason to uphold her duty.


End file.
